Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (12 page)

“This is Theo,” he said. “She’s a new music student. Theo, this is Jo and Hannah.”

Theo’s hair was looped and clipped into a messy up-do. She looked like one of those annoying French girls – chic, without even trying. She wore dangly eardrops and hardly any makeup. She didn’t need it; her skin was flawless.

Hannah was consumed with jealousy.

“We’re looking for sheet music,” Theo said, and smiled at Hannah. “I’m singing a solo for a vocal competition, so Duncan’s helping me find the proper music.”

“How nice.” Hannah cast Duncan a pointed glance and turned to Jo. “Let’s go. We’ve got shopping yet to do.”

Duncan glanced at her empty hands. “No luck yet?”

“Not yet,” she said breezily, “but something’ll turn up. It always does.”

“You know,” Jo confided later as they boarded the bus to go home, “Theo seemed pretty cool.”

“How can you say that?” Hannah snapped. “She stole my boyfriend, Jo!”

“But you broke up! And they’re not dating, they’re just friends. Duncan’s tutoring her—”

“Oh, I just bet he is.” Hannah flung herself on a seat in the back of the bus as it lurched forward. She clutched her carrier bags on her lap and stared, unseeing, out the window. He’d probably already had sex with Theodora. She was probably on birth control—

“Well, I thought she was nice,” Jo said stubbornly. “You’re overreacting.”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“Why? Because I don’t have a boyfriend?” Jo asked her sharply. “Well, neither do you, now.”

“Oh, do shut up, Jo. Just leave me alone.”

“No problem.” Jo stood, gathered up her bags, and found a seat near the front of the bus.

When Hannah got home it was nearly seven. She closed the front door, hoping no one heard her come in. She didn’t want to talk, or answer a dozen questions.

But the rustle of the carrier bags gave her away.

Her father appeared in the kitchen doorway and smiled as he saw her bags. “Bought out the store, Hannah Banana?”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “I’m not your Hannah Banana any more, dad, am I? I’m not six years old.”

Alastair, taken aback by her outburst, frowned. “Sorry, pet, I didn’t realise it bothered you so much.”

“I’m sick of everyone treating me like a child.”

“Well, then,” Alastair told her evenly, “perhaps it’s time you stopped behaving like one.”

Hannah glared at him. Wordlessly she grabbed up her bags and stormed past him, up the stairs to her room.

As Cherie came into the hallway, Alastair looked at her in consternation. “I can’t seem to put a foot right where Hannah’s concerned these days.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome to my world, darling,” she said dryly.

Rhys took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s nearly nine, Miss Dashwood. It’s time you went home.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll call a taxi.”

“No need, I drove. I even topped up the petrol in the Peugeot before I left this morning.” She got to her feet. “Besides,” she added primly, “taxis are a needless expense.”

“You’re learning,” he said, and smiled in approval. “Go home. And no more £11,000 chandelier purchases, mind.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, and gave him a cheeky smile in return. “I’ve no other weddings on the immediate horizon.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same. My best mate’s getting married soon, poor sod.” He hesitated. “Would you like to come along?”

Natalie gazed at him in mild surprise. He’d actually asked her out. She’d come in to Rhys’s office, ready to thrust a nice, sharp Sabatier between his shoulder blades; now she was contemplating an invitation to go to his best friend’s wedding.

How had
that
happened?

He added quickly, “I’ll understand if you’re busy—”

“No! I’d love to go,” Natalie said, equally quickly.

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “It’s next Saturday afternoon. I’ll fetch you at two o’clock, if that suits?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll see you here on Monday, then, nine a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t. Goodnight, Mr. Gordon.”

“Goodnight, Miss Dashwood.”

After Natalie left, Rhys tapped a few more keys on his laptop, his thoughts elsewhere. On a pair of wide, grey-blue eyes, to be precise, and a pert little bottom encased in nicely-fitted jeans…

He closed his laptop with a snap.
Don’t go there, mate
, he warned himself grimly.

He’d gone and asked Natalie to Ben’s wedding. What in
fuck
was he thinking? Now he’d have to introduce her to Ben, and Sophie. At this rate, he’d be taking her round to meet his mum, and then
he’d
be the next poor sod to walk down the aisle…

Perhaps Ben was right. What he needed was a pint and a pretty distraction. A girl who looked nothing like Cat…

…or Natalie Dashwood.

He punched in Ben’s number. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve asked Natalie along to your blasted wedding,” he said without preamble. “Let’s go grab a pint.”

“OK.” Amusement coloured Ben’s voice. “Are we celebrating something?”

“The only thing I’m celebrating,” Rhys said as he gathered up his briefcase and gym bag, “is the end of another work week in this financial hellhole. Hurry your arse up. I’ll meet you at the Bull and Feathers in twenty. And if you’re late,” he added as he left the office, “you’re buying the first round.”

Chapter 15

“I’ll put a pair of armchairs there,” Natalie said on Monday morning, pointing to one corner of her new office, “and a desk – Sheraton – here. As for the carpet—” Natalie eyed the beige Berber with distaste “—it’s got to go.”

Rhys appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, ladies. What’s going on in here?”

“Miss Dashwood has decided to redecorate,” Gemma informed him. She lifted one perfectly arched brow. “She wants an antique desk in her office…and new carpet.”

Natalie held a swatch of toile fabric against her smart new Armani jacket for Rhys’s consideration. “What do you think of this for the armchairs?”

“I think, Miss Dashwood,” he said shortly, “that you’ll make do with the same desk and chair that everyone else has.”

Her gaze swept over the grey metal desk with its sticking drawer and the lopsided wheeled chair in dismay. “But you said I might make the space my own.”

“And you certainly may.” He regarded her levelly. “With a plant, or a picture. Right now, I suggest you get whatever supplies you need from Gemma and get settled. Let’s meet in my office in twenty minutes. We’ve a lot of ground to cover.” And he turned on his heel and left.

“Well, that’s you, off to a great start,” Gemma said to Natalie with a smirk. “Come on, let’s get you sorted with pens and pads and things, so I can get on with my own work.”

“Thanks.” Uncertainly Natalie asked, “Where does one get a latte around here?”

“Coffee’s in the kitchenette. It tastes like burnt cork. If you want a latte, you have to go to the coffee shop.”

Natalie followed the PA out. “I’ll need a cup before I meet with Mr. Gordon.” She went into the tiny kitchen and took a Styrofoam cup from the stack and poured herself some coffee. It smelled like wet dog. There was a glass jar labelled ‘Coffee Fund’ half-filled with pound coins.

Guiltily, Natalie eyed the jar. She hadn’t any cash; but she was in desperate need of caffeine. She promised herself she’d stick in a couple of pounds the next time she came in.

Cautiously she took a sip of the brew, and nearly spat it out. Gemma was right — it was awful.

“Well, hello there.”

She gave a violent start and turned around.

Ian Clarkson stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the doorjamb. “First day at your new job, is it?”

“Oh! Yes. Sorry, you startled me.” She indicated the carafe. “I tried the coffee just now, but it’s noxious.”

“There ought to be a hazardous warning sticker on the pot. We can skip out and get a cup round the corner, if you like.”

“Oh, no thanks,” she said hastily. “I’ve got to get back. I’m meeting with Rhys. Gordon,” she added unnecessarily.

“I mustn’t keep you, then. You don’t want to be late for a meeting with Mr. Gordon on your first day. And I won’t tell him you didn’t put a pound in the coffee jar.” He winked as he lifted his coffee mug to her. “Well, I’ll see you around, shall I?”

She nodded and brushed past him, uncomfortably aware of his smirking presence in the doorway, and fled.

With pencils, pens, and steno pads in hand, Natalie returned from the supply closet to her office and dumped everything on her desk. She frowned. There was something about Mr. Clarkson that unnerved her.

Her stomach rumbled. Thank goodness she had a packet of HobNobs in her desk drawer. What with getting up early and racing around to get dressed, she’d had no time for breakfast. She tore open the packet and withdrew a cookie.

The intercom on her phone buzzed, startling her, and she dropped the HobNob. It rolled under her desk. “Mr. Gordon will see you now,” Gemma said crisply.

Natalie eyed the intercom with dislike and the cookie with regret, gathered up her pad and pen, and hurried through to Rhys Gordon’s office.

“Let’s get started. First of all,” Rhys began as she sat down, “set me up a meeting with IT for next week. Monday’s the best day—” he consulted his schedule “—in the early afternoon, if possible. I want to discuss our website options.”

Natalie nodded and scribbled furiously.

“Next, convince Sir Richard to increase our advertising funds. We’ll need to rob Peter to pay Paul in order to make it happen, but that’s to be expected.” He frowned. “As to that, I’d suggest we eliminate…needless expense…”

As she wrote down his instructions, Natalie’s hand began to cramp. Crikey, she was ready for a break already! It felt like she’d been writing for hours. She snuck a glance at her wristwatch. It was barely nine-thirty.

She’d taken notes for all of twenty minutes. She bit back a groan. It looked to be a long, long day…

“…and don’t forget to talk to Penelope about that jewellery line, and Poppy, and Dominic about the advert. We need them all on board so we can get started. I want everything ready in time for the re-launch.”

“Re-launch?” she echoed, and looked up.

“Yes. Once I’ve implemented my changes, and the new ad campaign’s in place, we’re re-launching Dashwood and James in a big way, with a stellar event here at the flagship store.” He leaned forward. “You’ll handle the planning, start to finish. Draft me up a business plan with the details.”

Natalie tapped her pen irritably against the steno pad. “Was there anything else?”
Shall I
r
un ten thousand double-sided copies of the employee handbook? Organise the supply closet alphabetically? Clean the lav with a toothbrush?

“Yes. After we’re done here, go to the coffee shop and get me a tall espresso macchiato.”

Natalie surged to her feet. “This is ridiculous!” she snapped. “You promised to treat me like anyone else, but you’re treating me far
worse
! You’ve loaded me up with work, and it’s not fair. I’m not fetching you a bloody espresso, macchiato or otherwise. I’ve half a mind to—”

His blue gaze collided with hers. “To what, Miss Dashwood?” he asked evenly. “Go to your grandfather?”

She glared at him. Blimey, sometimes she despised him, the smug arsehole! “No,” she said through gritted teeth. “I only meant I’ve got to get started on your bloody
list
.”

“Good. Oh, and I like my espresso black,” he called out after her as she left. “No sugar.”

Natalie stiffened in the doorway, but made no reply as she stalked out of his office.

She stopped at Gemma’s desk. “Mr. Gordon wants to meet with IT Monday, in the early afternoon if possible—”

Gemma didn’t look up as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Call IT yourself. I’m Mr. Gordon’s PA, not yours.”

“Oh. Yes. Right, I’ll…do that.” Natalie slunk back to her office with as much dignity as she could muster and picked up the phone.
Rude
cow
. She scanned the phone list. Where was IT on the list? What exactly
was
IT, anyway? Something to do with computers, she knew that much—

“Miss Dashwood?” Rhys called out from his office. “Did you get that espresso yet?”

“On my way,” she called back.
Out the bloody door, past Gemma’s desk, never to return again
, she thought darkly. “I’ll be right back.”

By the end of the day, Natalie was exhausted. She’d telephoned, consulted, copied, fetched, and faxed until her head spun. Rhys wanted a working lunch and, since Gemma was gone for the day, Natalie picked up sandwiches from Prêt. Over tomato-and-cheese ciabattas, Rhys outlined his plans for the re-launch as Natalie scribbled madly to keep up with his thoughts.

At the end of the week Rhys approved her draft business plan for the re-launch. “Good job. I made a few changes.”

“Thanks,” she said, pleased. “I’ll make the changes and run you a copy.”

He nodded, his attention already focused elsewhere. “Make copies for the board members, too. We’ll need their approval.”

When Rhys’s changes were made, Natalie headed to the copier. “Gemma,” she called out as she passed the PA’s desk, “I’ll need these copies GBC bound when you get a chance.”

Gemma fixed her with a withering look. “I told you before, I support Mr. Gordon, not you—”

“Mr. Gordon’s orders,” Natalie replied crisply. “Speak with him if you take issue. Oh, and I need them by the end of the day. Thanks!”

Natalie strode down the hallway to the copier, leaving an outraged Gemma behind.
Please let the bloody copier not jam
, Nat prayed as she entered the copier room and stacked the business plan’s pages into the collator.
Now, how many board members were there—?

“Hullo, Natalie.”

She glanced up, and her heart sank. “Oh. Mr. Clarkson.”

“Ian, please. No need to be so formal.” He paused. “I left you a message on Saturday, by the way. Did you get it?”

Oh, crap
. “Yes, I did. Sorry, I’m afraid I forgot, I’ve had a lot of…stuff, going on.” Twelve copies, she decided, that should do it.